


Born of Winter

by Anon_Mouse13



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Complicated Relationships, F/M, Mild Sexual Content, discussions of bastardy, like extreme angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:46:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26503858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anon_Mouse13/pseuds/Anon_Mouse13
Summary: Winterfell is taken and the Starks go to Jon for help.Catelyn and Jon reunion AU.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Catelyn Tully Stark
Comments: 26
Kudos: 99





	Born of Winter

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: Suppose Robb didn't order Catelyn to treat with Stannis and Renly, and she went back to Winterfell - how would this affect things? What happens when Theon makes his attack (does Catelyn spot that it's a trap, or does she get taken captive too?)

“Maester!”  
  
Bran’s cry draws her attention, and Catelyn feels her stomach sink as she looks beyond him and Hodor, sees the heart tree, sees Maester Luwin crumpled at its base.  
  
“My lords, my lady,” Luwin rasps even as a smile crosses his face as they approach, “you have escaped. This gladdens my heart.”  
  
“You’re hurt,” Rickon says, moving to stand before the old man as Osha sets him down. It is then that Catelyn notices the blood staining the front of his grey robes, the stain which grows bigger as they stand there. She wants to pull Rickon back, wants to shield him and Bran both from this, but she cannot, she is in too much shock, and Osha pulls her to a nearby rock, the same that she had sat upon when she had brought Ned news of Jon Arryn’s death.  
  
“See to the maester,” Catelyn says, finding her words at last as Osha stares her down concernedly. “I am fine.”  
  
“And to remain such, my lady, you must flee,” Luwin protests, waving his hand weakly in the direction of the wolfswood. “You are mother of the North, you must survive, you and the princes. I will not.”  
  
“Don’t say that!” Bran cries, and even though she cannot see his face, she knows that her boy’s eyes are filling with tears.  
  
“It is true, my prince,” Luwin says, smiling kindly at the child. “I am old, Lord Bran, and I have seen many winters. This one coming, though, this will be different. It will be long, and I will not see its end. But you must survive. You and your brother and your lady mother, you must survive. You must leave.”  
  
“Maester Luwin –” Catelyn starts, wanting to protest, only to have her words cut off as Osha pushes against something in her back, a wound she had not realized she had taken in their hurried escape from Winterfell, and the pain robs her of speech. The wildling woman whispers assurances that the wound is not deep as she moves to the satchel Hodor carries and pulls a thin blanket from it, tearing away a long strip.  
  
“I do not want to leave you,” Rickon says, tears streaming down his young face as he stands before the maester.  
  
“No more than I want to leave you, my prince,” Luwin answers, a sad smile on his wrinkled face. “You must remember that I pulled you into the world, both you and Lord Bran. I have seen both your faces almost every day since and for that I consider myself very, very lucky.” With a glance to Catelyn, he says, “Now, go with Hodor, go on. I’ll be right here.”  
  
Though they both protest, Hodor quickly scoops up Bran and Meera takes Rickon by the hand, leading him away as Jojen and both direwolves follow.  
  
“My lady,” Luwin starts, his breaths coming shallower now, “take them North, far from here. Take them to the Wall, to Jon Snow. I know you bear him no love, Lady Stark, but he will look after you all, protect you. I fear the way south to King Robb will be blocked to you.”  
  
“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell,” Catelyn answers, her voice cracking as Osha tightens a compress against her wound. She knows the words are foolish as soon as they leave her mouth, but she has heard them for too long, knows Ned – oh gods, Ned, why did you ever leave? – had lived by them.  
  
“The North will ever follow House Stark so long as a member of this house draws breath, my lady,” Luwin explains weakly. “You must survive, the princes must survive. You can retake Winterfell with King Robb and the still loyal bannermen, but you all must live to do so, my lady.”  
  
Catelyn knows he is right, knows that they must flee, but she cannot bear to leave him like this. “Osha,” she starts, kneeling before the maester, “fetch me milk of the poppy.”  
  
“No,” Luwin protests, a wrinkled hand grasping hers weakly. “I need only one thing, my lady.” Turning his attention to the wildling, who now kneels beside Catelyn, he says, “All I ask is that you be quick.”  
  
Catelyn wants to argue, wants to allow him to leave this world in oblivion, but then she knows the poppy does not always work quickly, that he is in great pain even now. Clasping his hand between both of hers, she looks to Osha, giving the woman a quick, decisive nod before looking back to the maester. She sees Osha, from the corner of her eye, move beside the old man, rest a hand against his shoulder.

“Long may House Stark rule these lands, my lady,” Luwin whispers, a look of gratitude in his face. “And long may you live to see them do so.”  
  
The blade enters forcefully, causing his body to jerk –  
  
– And Catelyn shoots up in bed with start. Her chest heaves as she sucks in breath after breath, though she tries to calm herself as best she can without waking anyone. The dream – or nightmare – has been the same for moons now, ever since the fateful day they all escaped from Winterfell.  
  
A glance around the tiny room in Castle Black finds all still asleep. Bran and Rickon share her bed, the largest in the room, while both wolves sleep at its foot. Meera and Osha share a smaller cot against the opposite wall while Jojen and Hodor have made up bedrolls near the fire. Thankfully, she finds the fire still blazing. Osha had stoked it well before they went to bed, not wanting to wake, as they had often enough in their first weeks there, to a dying fire. The Wall is far too cold for that.  
  
It has been five moons since the attack on Winterfell, and almost four since they arrived at Castle Black. The journey had been long, hard, walking for hours on end each day, praying that they were traveling in the right direction. They actually found the Wall before they found Castle Black, though they were fortunate enough to find a group of scouts that were made up of Northmen who recognized her, and they had quickly led her and the children to the castle. The Lord Commander had made them welcome immediately, saddened to hear of the fall of Winterfell but professing, as always, that the Black Brothers did not interfere with matters of the realm. He did, however, offer her and the children, even the wildling woman, safe haven in Castle Black, provided they would pull their own weight. Thankfully, there was always mending to be done, cooking, cleaning, the like, and while she knew nothing of cooking, Catelyn could spend hours sewing and was teaching Bran to mend trousers for the men, Osha and the Reeds could hunt and cook, at least enough to keep them fed, and Hodor and the boys could do their fair share of cleaning. It was enough, in the eyes of Lord Mormont, to allow them to remain, and for that, she is grateful.  
  
Catelyn’s heart still pounds as she sits in the bed, and she knows that if she remains where she is, she will wake one, if not both, of the boys. She climbs from the bed carefully, easing past those sleeping on the floor and as well as the wolves, and dons her cloak. It is not safe, she knows, to wander about Castle Black on her own, for though she is a noblewoman, Lady of the North, most of these men care not. She is a woman, and they have not seen women in some time, at least not women that are not trying to kill them. Meera’s youth has not saved her from unwanted attention, and even Osha, wildling though she may be, has fought off unwelcome advances. Catelyn has ensured that both of them are always accompanied by a man, either Jojen or Hodor or one of the decent Black Brothers, so as to hopefully make them lesser targets. She has even been on the receiving end of her fair share of lascivious looks, though that, thankfully, is all they have been. But most of the men stare at her all the same, lascivious or no, because they know she was – is? – the lady of the house in which Jon Snow grew up.  
  
Catelyn pulls the cloak tight around her as she slips out the door, nearly tripping over the white mass lying there. Ghost raises his head up and looks at her, tilting his head as though to ask her what she is doing. It unnerves her, in a way, how smart the animal is, how smart they all are. She would never think to separate the wolves from her children, not after how Summer saved Bran, but she is still somewhat apprehensive of the relationship between her children and these wolves that she cannot explain.

“I suppose your master is returned, then,” she says to the wolf, watching as he stands and stretches, rocking back on his hind legs and yawning widely. Though she and Jon Snow have barely spoken a word to one another since their arrival, he does stop in to see Bran and Rickon frequently. The first time he had walked into their room, Catelyn had lost her breath, astounded by the resemblance he bore to Ned. He has grown now to be taller than his father had been, but with his beard, it is as though her Ned had stood before her again. Even the thought of it now makes her ache.  
  
She turns to walk away, wanting to leave such thoughts behind her, but the wolf falls into step beside her, giving her pause. Since they arrived at Castle Black, Ghost has spent the night outside their door unless he and Jon are outside the castle. Catelyn does not often allow herself to think about what that means, about how Jon must perceive his brothers in black to have his wolf guard them so. Jon and Ghost had left just over a fortnight past, venturing beyond the Wall with a small crew on a ranging mission, and Catelyn knows, from the conversations Jon has had with her boys, that he hopes, as they all do, to try to locate Benjen, who is still missing.  
  
Normally, when Jon returns from a ranging, he comes by to see his brothers. Catelyn surmises he must have gotten in very late, though the wolf still came to their rooms all the same. Even now, as she walks down the dimly lit hall, the direwolf ambles along at her side, leaving his post to keep her company, and Catelyn cannot understand why. “You have left Bran and Rickon,” she says to the animal, thinking that she must look very foolish for speaking to Ghost as though he can actually understand her, but she cares not. As she reaches the door that leads to an outer hall, she adds, “You should return to them. Your master will likely not be pleased.”  
  
Ghost pays her no mind, though he does step closer to her, bumping her hip and nosing at her hand as she reaches for the door handle. It gives her a moment’s pause, but when he repeats the action as she reaches for the handle again, she realizes that he is trying to keep her from leaving.  
  
“I will not be long,” Catelyn tells him quietly. “I simply need the air.”  
  
The quarters they have been given in Castle Black are not quarters at all, not really, but a large storage room along an old hallway, largely abandoned. It may, at one time, have housed members of the Night’s Watch, but with their depleted ranks, it has become a catch-all for anything not currently in use. Catelyn has often wondered if the implication was intentional, but Lord Commander Mormont is still a Stark man, even if he is a sworn brother, and she cannot see him intending such as an insult. She is grateful, in many ways, for they are far enough from the barracks that no one comes there unless they have reason to, but close enough to yell for help in the event that anyone tries anything. Then again, we have two direwolves, three at night when Ghost is present, she thinks to herself, no one is going to come for us.  
  
Catelyn reaches for the door handle a third time, and once again, the wolf tries to stop her. “Seven hells,” she curses, her temper flaring. “Look here, wolf,” she starts, “I am going out there to get some air. You will not stop me. Go back to Bran and Rickon, it is where your master would prefer you be. I will be fine.” And without another thought, Catelyn quickly steps around the beast and grabs the door handle, yanking it open.  
  
The cold steals the air from her lungs momentarily, forcing her to pull her cloak tighter around her and bury her face in the fur, breathing slowly through it to lessen the sting of the chill. It is far colder at the Wall than she ever remembers it being at Winterfell, even in the worse of winters past. Catelyn flexes her fingers in the trim of the cloak, cursing the stiffness that is ever-present in them now in such cold, ever-present since the night that rogue had tried to kill Bran. The uncovered walkway she steps out onto is old and rickety, but Catelyn has long past gotten over her fear of this walkway, or many of the others that line this castle.

Her breathing immediately slows in the chill night air, her lungs unable to handle such cold air within them in large quantities. The burn of it in her throat is oddly calming, for it reminds her of the nights spent in her bed in Winterfell, the windows thrown open by Ned after they had made love. As she walks slowly down the scaffolded walkway, Catelyn allows the memories to wash over her, to warm her from the inside, even when they cause a bitter sting behind her eyes. Her memories are bittersweet, for she would not trade them for anything yet they bring as much pain as joy, and yet again, she longs for Ned, longs for his strong arms around her, his long face, the one she had at first thought unhandsome, smiling at her from beneath his Heart Tree. Catelyn may have ever felt an outsider in the godswood of Winterfell, but with Ned by her side, it had mattered not. Now, even further north than she had ever thought to go, Catelyn feels more the outsider than ever before.  
  
“You should not be out here, my lady.”  
  
Catelyn wheels around quickly, her cloak billowing out around her ankles, to see who has addressed her. There, in the doorway through which she has just passed, stands Jon Snow, hair rumpled and clothes disheveled from sleep. Ghost stands at this side, looking back and forth between the two of them as though he is waiting for something. Jon must notice, for he looks to his wolf and then jerks his head back toward the hallway. Immediately, the wolf complies, disappearing out of sight, though in the silent still of the night, she can hear his paws as he lopes down the hallway and, presumably, back to his post outside her door.  
  
“I would think you would be sleeping,” Catelyn says, turning and looking out into the courtyard below, though she can still see him from the corner of her eye, standing there, watching her. “You must have returned late.”  
  
“We did, my lady,” Jon answers, not moving.  
  
“You should return to your bed,” Catelyn tells him, and she recognizes her voice as the one she had long used with him when he was a boy. Even now, when he stands before her a man grown, when he stands before her as the image of the man she loved, Catelyn must revert back to her old ways to keep it all together.  
  
“As should you, my lady,” Jon says, finally stepping out onto the walkway with her. He takes a few steps in her direction, but still gives her a wide berth. He, too, seems to fall back upon old ways, has ever since she arrived. “The night is far too cold for you to be out here so dressed.”  
  
“I will be along when I am ready,” she says shortly, bristling at the thought of chastisement from this boy.  
  
For many moments, she does not move and neither does he. At last, Catelyn sees him turn and face the courtyard in much the same manner she does, and it riles her that he will not leave her be. Still, she says nothing, does nothing, to give him any indication that she even acknowledges his presence. It is an old routine, one with which they have a great deal of experience, though she would have expected him to leave her be, as she asked, long before now. Mayhap it is the man in him, not the boy, that stands before her now, that keeps him at her side.  
  
With just the slightest turn of her head, Catelyn studies Jon. He is tall, looks far bulkier than when he left Winterfell, though she can acknowledge that it is likely the layers of black clothing that he must wear now as a brother of the Watch. Still, he appears broader, more matured. Far more than Robb, she thinks, and it stirs her ire in a way that she would not have expected. Robb, her boy king, wears a crown upon a child’s auburn locks, speaks a man’s edicts in a lad’s voice. So much like Edmure when he was young, still so boyish even as a man. To her eyes, Robb has not grown as Jon has, even though they are so close in age. Why, Catelyn decries silently, must Jon be so like Ned in all things, in his growth and appearance, when his trueborn son seems to share nothing with him?  
  
It is such thoughts that drive Catelyn to move, make her turn from him completely and start to walk away.  
  
“You should not wander, my lady,” Jon calls after her, and Catelyn hears his booted footfalls following.

“Leave me be,” she snaps back over her shoulder, hoping he will do as she bids. But he is stubborn, a trait he has rarely shown in her presence before.  
  
“You should return to your room, to the boys, where it’s warm,” he persists, finally reaching out and actually catching her elbow, wheeling her about to face him. “Your rooms were always the warmest in Winterfell because you do not like the cold. Father saw to this.”  
  
The mention of Ned from his lips is enough to make her lose her resolve, and Catelyn twists away, snatching back her arm and all but shoving him aside as she turns abruptly and stalks back toward the door without a word. All she wishes now is as much distance between the two of them as Castle Black will allow.  
  
“Is that all it takes?” Jon asks suddenly, his voice suddenly hard, cold, as icy as the wall he guards. “For me to mention Father?”  
  
“Shut your mouth!” Catelyn cries angrily, wheeling about once again, facing him down with a cold stare of her own.  
  
“That is it, isn’t it, my lady?” Jon asks, though she hears the sneer in the title he gives to her, sees his grey eyes harden. “You’ve done so every time I have mentioned Father when visiting the boys. You all but run from the room. Is it so horrible for me to speak of him, so horrible to think that the man that fathered your boy also fathered me?”  
  
“Yes!” Catelyn says, running both hands through her unbound hair as she spins toward the railing, clutching it tightly in her gloved grip. “Gods, just leave me be!” she starts, biting back tears as she turns her head to face him down. “Visit the boys as you wish, I will not deny them your company for they wish it so, but just leave me alone!”  
  
“As you did me, my lady?” Jon asks snidely, stalking to her side. “What harm did I ever do you? Truly? I love your children as though they were my full brothers and sisters, I would never think to steal form Robb what is his, not matter what you fear. I have never thought to climb higher than my birth, and yet still you hate me! I helped convince the Lord Commander to give you refuge here, to house all of you, and still you cannot bear the sight of me!”  
  
“Because it hurts too much!” Catelyn shouts in his face, tears of anger and loss shimmering in her eyes. “You will never understand how it hurts to look upon you, bastard! How it pains me, slices me to the quick, to look at your face, the face you share with your lord father, my husband, the only man I have ever loved!” With a shuddering breath, Catelyn fights for the anger, fights to keep herself riled, for she knows as soon as she stops, as soon as she lets go of it, the all-consuming grief that has so long followed her will devour her completely. “You cannot know how it feels to look upon you and see the man I love the day I married him, whole and before me as though no time at all has passed. You cannot know the sheer agony of that!”  
  
“As though looking upon you is any better for me?” Jon cries, and Catelyn forces herself to look at him, really look at him, for the first time in all of this. And there, in those grey eyes, she sees anger and bitterness battling. “You who always brought a smile to Father’s face. You who always held his arm, stood by his side, was allowed every chance to be at his side because it was your right, as it was for Robb and Sansa and Arya and Bran and Rickon. All of you were granted his time and attention with no thought as to its propriety. You, my lady, whom he loved so much that he refused to ever once tell me anything of my mother!”  
  
Catelyn’s hand flies before she is really aware, the warm sting in her hand telling her that it had truly happened, that she had actually struck the boy – the man – the image of Ned – standing before her. “Do not speak to me of love and your mother!” Catelyn says, as Jon catches both of her wrists, holding her still even as she struggles against him. “Your mother, who tempted honorable Ned Stark to break his vows, to dishonor himself and me, whom he loved so much that he forbade me to even ask her name!”

The look that flashes through Jon’s eyes is indescribable, though Catelyn feels certain that it is mirrored in her own. Such rage and anguish, it draws up memories of another face, another time, when she cowered in her bed as her new husband fumed, the husband that she would come to love with all her heart. His face is before her now, mere inches away, and Catelyn is so tired of being strong. Recklessly, she pushes against him, presses her lips to his as the first tear begins to fall.  
  
Almost immediately, though, Catelyn jerks away, feeling a brief spark of shame at what she has done. But before she can flee, before she can turn and run, Jon catches her up quickly, an arm banding around her back, though he does not push her away, pulling her close instead as a gloved hand of his own goes through her hair. Catelyn knows not how, but he forces them backward, back toward the door, through it, and into an empty room just off the hallway. He kicks the door shut behind them, though it is old and the latch weak, leaving it to swing back open part way, allowing the faint torchlight from the sconces to pour through the space left. Whatever shame may have been rising dies as the dim light falls across his face, highlights the features she wants to see – longs with all her heart to see – and hides those she does not in shadow.  
  
Catelyn knows not who moves first, only that once movement occurs, there is no stopping it. Cloaks fall away, as do gloves, then a shift and jerkin, then smallclothes and breeches and suddenly calloused fingers are burning trails across her skin as tears fall down her cheeks. This is wrong. Her mind is screaming at her that this should not happen, but through tear-blurred eyes in a darkened room, the head of dark curls that moves between her legs is so familiar, the feelings he evokes so intense, that she can do nothing but slip an elegant hand into those curls and hold him closer as she rides out wave after wave of pleasure. When she finally succumbs he moves over her and she pulls him close, nails dragging across the broad plain of his back as she mewls with each thrust.  
  
“Ne–”  
  
Every time Catelyn starts to speak, his mouth is pressed to hers, swallowing the unfinished syllable before it can pass between them. She cares not, cares only that in whatever time they are there – minutes, hours, she loses track – he is hers and hers alone. The night passes in a blur of rage and passion, grief and bitter loneliness coupled with need and desire, pain of fingertips holding too tightly and nails digging too deeply paired with the tender caress of lips upon lips and the tantalizing slide of skin against skin. It is overwhelming, and Catelyn allows herself to be lost in it, to relinquish the control that she has cleaved to for so long, to drown in the feeling of connectedness, succumbing so much that she even forgets herself, forgets where she is, forgets that it is _him_.  
  
Catelyn forgets, is blissfully happy in doing so, until the first stirrings within Castle Black draw her from her slumber. He sleeps on at her side, oblivious to her gathering her clothes as quickly and as quietly as she can. In fact, the slowness of his breathing almost leads her to question if he is even alive, though his breaths are deep and even, proving him still among the living. Catelyn moves gingerly, as much to keep from waking him as she does to keep from aggravating the deep aches that radiate through muscles unused for so long. She should blush with shame for what she has done, for laying with this man – of all men – with so little thought, for allowing herself to be so caught up in her sorrow and longings that she could act so.  
  
But she doesn’t. Even when Ghost noses his way into the room and looks at her expectantly – not condemningly, Catelyn thinks, just queerly – as though he cannot understand what she is doing as she throws her cloak back about her shift, which she notes is torn and will need to be mended before anyone can notice, she does not blush. Even when she reenters her room to find Osha awake, watching her closely as she returns to the bed with her boys, Catelyn does not blush. Something within her will not allow her to do so, will not allow the shame of it to take root.

But she and Jon do not speak again. Not even three days later, when Lord Commander Mormont informs her of the raven from his niece, the one which says Bear Island would be honored to welcome the Lady of Winterfell and her children, and he tells her that they will leave within the week. Not even when he bids farewell to her children, helping Bran get situated on his horse before lifting Rickon up to join him on the animal. Jon spares her little more than a glance, and she even less for him as she guides her mount to fall in with the rest of the party, riding out of Castle Black into yet another unknown, pulling the fur trim higher up on her neck to ward off the cold, even when it feels as though that cold originates from within her, wells up and radiates out from somewhere deep inside of her.  
  
\--

  
Winter is come. The white winds blow harshly across Bear Island, sweeping across the frozen northern portions of the Bay of Ice. Cold is her constant companion these days, the aches that accompany it all but ignored now for their constant presence. It has been almost four years since they fled Winterfell for their very lives, and a little over three since they left the Wall. In that time, Catelyn and her children have adjusted to life on Bear Island, though some have had more success than others.  
  
Rickon loves Bear Island, loves the wildness of it and the new friend he has made in Lady Alysane’s young son Rodrik, named for the Stark king who had given the island to House Mormont. Bran has been at peace here as well, as much as he can be when she knows he still feels guilty for the decisions he made that cost them Winterfell. Not matter how she explains it, Catelyn cannot make him see that none blame him, that he had tried to do what was right in a world full of unjust men. Though time has seemed to heal a great deal, Catelyn knows it still weighs heavily upon her boy, now nearing one and ten. Often she sees him and Jojen sitting close, talking quietly, looking through a nearby window or, on the days when the snow lessens enough to journey outside, staring off toward the north, and it worries her, for she knows that Jojen Reed believes her son to have some kind of purpose, knows that the crannogman has taught her son to forge an even deeper connection with his wolf – something that Catelyn does not allow herself to dwell on too often or too deeply – knows that he sees Bran as something beyond being King in the North.  
  
King in the North. The very phrase all but rips Catelyn’s heart out of her chest, for it had been just two and a half years past that the wolves had suddenly begun howling endlessly, mournfully, for days on end until word had come to them of Robb’s accursed wedding, of his death alongside Dacey Mormont and Smalljon Umber, of the way those loathsome Frey’s had desecrated her beloved son’s body. The fact that this news had come to them through Arya, who had trudged through snows and bitter cold with her wolf, Nymeria, from the Twins to reunite with them, had been the only thing to lessen the blow. The knowledge that her girl had been present, had heard, if not seen, the atrocities done to her brother, made a hatred so strong burn within Catelyn that there were some days she wondered if that was all that kept her warm. Arya, too, has thrived on Bear Island, loves the culture of warrior women that she has now joined, and she and Alysandra, Lady Alysane’s daughter to whom Arya is so close in age, are nigh inseparable in their training and their exploits, dear Meera acting as both co-conspirator and a voice of reason.  
  
Even Osha has settled in, finding a place among all these kneelers. She minds things, tends the animals in the stables, goes beyond the walls of the keep to hunt often, bringing back small game and the like. But most of the time, she is watching the boys to ensure they stay out of too much trouble, for it is impossible for boys so young to stay completely out of trouble. They are a handful, more than Catelyn could handle on her own, she knows, trying to mind Rickon and Rodrik and –  
  
“Mama!”  
  
Catelyn turns, from where she sits with Alysane in her lady mother’s solar, just in time to see the streak of black dart across the room and launch itself at her.

“Oh!” she starts with a laugh as she sweeps the child up into her arms and sets him on her lap. Ruffling his dark curls, she sees his eyes alive with mirth as he looks up at her. “And what has gotten into you, my boy?”  
  
“The wolves are strange again,” he answers, his grey eyes dancing in his long face.  
  
“That’s nearly a week, now,” Alysane says quietly, and Catelyn looks across the desk at the younger woman, seeing a pensive look on her face. “What are they doing, Jeor?”  
  
“They are running about the gate,” the boy answers, waving his chubby little arms about wildly, and Catelyn can imagine the scrum he is trying to illustrate. They have all seen it in the past days, the three direwolves practically throwing themselves at the gate in an effort to break through it, to get outside. Both she and Alysane have been weary of letting them beyond the walls, afraid of whatever lurks beyond, wanting the wolves within the castle in the event of some kind of attack.  
  
“It does not sound like before,” Alysane says with a quiet sigh, rising along with Catelyn. That is all the allusion Alysane will make to the time when Robb died, and for that, Catelyn is grateful. “I suppose we should see to it, then.”  
  
Setting Jeor down, Catelyn watches with a smile as the boy races ahead, his little legs strong and sure as he runs out of sight, his steps echoing down the halls of the keep as he runs to rejoin his siblings outside.  
  
“He grows quickly,” Alysane observes as she walks alongside Catelyn.  
  
“That he does,” Catelyn agrees, offering the woman a kind smile and thinking that she can scarcely belief he is a few moons away from turning three. Her boy is bulky, stout, though tall for his age, well suited to the North, as it is mostly Northern blood that flows through his veins.  
  
Catelyn is beyond grateful to Alysane for all that she has done for them, for the sanctuary she has offered them. Bear Island is nigh impenetrable, and all those in the household loyal to House Stark. Even when Stannis Baratheon marched North to the Wall and sent word to Bear Island, asking for fealty, Alysane had stood firm, swearing the only fealty she and House Mormont would give was to the true King in the North, young Brandon Stark. It was a bold gamble, knowing that House Glover and at least half of House Umber had sworn fealty to Stannis, while the other half of House Umber had sworn fealty to House Bolton. Just the thought of Roose Bolton holding the North and his bastard holding Winterfell is enough to send Catelyn into a fury, though the notion that other Northern houses, especially those that had long been House Stark’s most fervent supporters, would throw in their lot with Bolton or Stannis is what truly hurts. But even in the face of all that, Alysane had stayed true to her house loyalties, had stood behind the Starks, has seen them well cared for in her home. Catelyn vows that such loyalty will not go unrecognized.  
  
Stepping out onto the bridge between the keep and the hall, Catelyn and Alysane take in the scene in the yard below. As had been the case before, the wolves are in a near frenzy, no one daring to approach them except her own children, though Osha, thankfully, holds Jeor back. She knows none of the wolves would harm him, for they look after the little boy as much as anyone else, but she still does not want him in the thick of it.  
  
“Arya!” Alysane calls, drawing the dark-haired girl’s attention. “Can you not stop this?”  
  
“I cannot explain it, my lady,” Arya calls back in frustration, all but given up on trying to get Nymeria’s attention. “It isn’t like before. They are too focused, too determined.”  
  
“On what?” Catelyn asks.  
  
“Something is coming,” Bran says from where he sits on a barrel near the training yard. His voice is distant, his gaze unfocused, and it gives Catelyn a chill that has nothing to do with the weather to see him look so.  
  
“Archers!” Alysane calls, beginning to ready the castle’s defenses.  
  
“No!” Bran cries, his eye refocusing quickly upon the acting Lady of Bear Island. “It is not danger, my lady. They are simply excited.”  
  
“But for what?” Catelyn questions, more to herself than to anyone else as she watches Rodrik and Rickon race up the battlements to stand along the top of the wall.

From where they stand, Catelyn and Alysane cannot see over the wall, but apparently there is something there to be seen, for as soon as they reach the landing, both boys begin pointing. Thankfully, Catelyn notes they are pointing north, away from the part of the bay that is still open, sailable water and accessible from the Sunset Sea. The Ironborn are still pillaging the coast, they receive word every now and then of longships reaving through villages further south, but as winter has set in, thankfully none have attacked Bear Island in the years that Catelyn and her children have been present.  
  
“Mother!” Rodrik cries, the dark haired lad looking down to where she stands with Lady Alysane. “Come look!”  
  
“Stay here, my lady, where it is safe,” Alysane instructs as she starts to walk away, her pace brisk. Whatever this is, it has her worried.  
  
“That is my son on that wall as well, Lady Alysane,” Catelyn tells her, falling into step behind the younger woman. “I will be coming along all the same.”  
  
The burly woman does not argue, simply continues on, Catelyn in her wake. The castle at Bear Island is much smaller than Winterfell, even smaller than Castle Black, and the trip to the top of the battlements is short. As they come to stand behind their children, Catelyn’s eyes sweep the snow whitened expanse beyond the wall. Since the bay had begun to freeze, it was difficult to distinguish where the northern shoreline ended and the frozen surface of the water began. However, the black figures that appear in the distance are clear to see. Numbering less than twenty, as best she can tell, they make no attempt at stealth or concealment. Catelyn prays this means that, whoever they are, they do not come for ill purposes.  
  
“Aly!”  
  
The cry draws the attention of Catelyn and Lady Alysane, both of whom turn to see Jorelle racing into the yard, axe in hand, while Lyra and Lyanna emerge quickly from the armory, the elder girl armed with a mace and the youngest wielding a bow and quiver, racing up the steps behind Arya and Alysandra, who are similarly armed. The Mormont girls, though young, all wear determined expressions, and Catelyn has no doubt that they will meet any attacker head on and without fear, a credit to their house, every last one of them. Meera, standing in the middle of the yard, is already armed with her frog spear and net, while Jojen, who, bless him, has never been much of a fighter, stands beside Bran with a sword drawn nonetheless.  
  
“Stay where you are, all of you!” Alysane barks, though only her daughter and sisters listen. Arya never breaks stride, sprinting across the top of the battlement, arrow already notched and ready to loose by the time she stops in front of her mother, shielding her in the process.  
  
“Stay behind me, Mother, Rickon,” Arya says, her eyes never leaving the length of the arrow as she stands poised to shoot.  
  
“For gods’ sake, Arya, lower that bow,” Alysane snaps, smacking at the bow and forcing her to lower it. “We know not if they mean to attack, but I will not entice them to do so by firing upon them first.”  
  
“Are we under attack or not?” Lyanna yells testily, standing just a step behind her niece, two fingers nervously drumming on the taut bowstring as she stands with the other two holding an arrow notched.  
  
“I know not,” Alysane replies, her eyes never leaving the small party that comes closer with each passing minute. “Lyra,” she starts, now yelling over the clamor of the direwolves in the yard, “see that the gate is secured, just in case. And can none of you do something about those damned wolves?”  
  
The three wolves are in a near frenzy, barking and howling and yipping, throwing their large paws up on the massive log gate and gouging deep scratches on it.  
  
“We cannot get to the gate for the wolves, Aly,” Lyra calls back, giving the wolves a wide berth, “but if it can stand up to them, I daresay it will stand against men. How many?”  
  
“Twenty, mayhap less,” Alysane answers, her eyes shrewdly taking in the scene before her, and Catelyn can guess that her warrior’s mind is quickly calculating how best to move forward. “See that any man able is called to the yard and anyone unable is kept within the keep.”  
  
“Should we see them armed?” Lyra asks.

“Find the master-at-arms and make sure he is prepared, but otherwise, not yet,” Alysane orders succinctly.  
  
“Right,” Lyra replies with a firm nod. Turning to her sister, she says, “Jory, with me. I’ll need your help.”  
  
As the two Mormonts disappear from the yard, a howl rends the air, long and loud, the howl of a direwolf. But what makes Catelyn’s heart skip a beat is the fact that the howl did not come from any of the three wolves by the gate. In fact, it silences them immediately.  
  
“What in the –?”  
  
“Ghost.”  
  
The whispered word slips from Catelyn’s lips without thought, her eyes locked on the approaching group of men. They are closer now, more easily distinguished in their black garb, but the thing that catches her eye is the lumbering mass, barely noticeable as it blends so with the fallen snow. In fact, were it not for the animal’s movement, it would be all but invisible.  
  
“My lady,” Alysane starts, confusion lacing the words, “I do not understand–”  
  
“It’s Jon!” Arya cries excitedly, slipping the arrow from the bow and quickly replacing it in her quiver, all the while seeming to fight the urge to jump up and down excitedly. “It must be Jon!”  
  
“That’s why the wolves are acting so oddly,” Bran calls, having heard Arya’s joyous shout. “They can sense Ghost, he is their littermate,” he says, pausing before adding, “the last of them left.”  
  
Whatever orders are issued after that are a mystery to Catelyn. All she knows is that Arya and Rickon race from the wall, Rodrik on their heels. She can hear the household below making ready to greet the approaching men, but she stands perfectly still, lost in her own thoughts. Jon. Jon Snow is on Bear Island, will soon be within these walls, will soon be here with …  
  
“Lady Stark.”  
  
The utterance of her name draws Catelyn back to reality. Lady Alysane still stands at her side, though she now eyes her concernedly, and Catelyn sees Osha leading Jeor up the stairs, feels the wildling’s eyes upon her. Neither woman knows anything of what occurred at Castle Black, but neither is simpleminded. The implication of Jon Snow’s arrival is read easily on their faces.  
  
“They look to be a party men from the Watch,” Catelyn says, extending her hand to her son, prompting the boy to race to her side.  
  
“Indeed,” Alysane agrees with a nod. “We will make them welcome, of course.”  
  
It is a statement, though not an order. Alysane is the Lady of Bear Island, but her loyalty to House Stark will not allow her to speak an order to the Lady of Winterfell. Catelyn has little doubt that if she were to ask Alysane to turn them away, the woman would do so without hesitation. But her uncle had served the Night’s Watch with honor, and all Northern houses respected the men who willingly took the black to defend the realm. Catelyn could no more ask her to turn them away than she could ask her to turn her own children out.  
  
“Of course, my lady,” Catelyn replies, offering a weak smile as she nods her agreement. “Have we provisions necessary to accommodate them?”  
  
“We do, Lady Stark, provided they do not mean to stay for a great while,” Alysane explains as she turns and starts to make her descent to the yard below. Catelyn follows, Jeor’s hand still held firmly in hers.  
  
“Mama, who is Jon?” Jeor asks as they take the stairs, his grey eyes full of curiosity as he gazes up at her.  
  
“I suppose you’ll know soon enough, little lord,” Osha answers before Catelyn is able, and the wildling shows no reaction to the look Catelyn throws over her shoulder.  
  
“He serves the Night’s Watch, Jeor, and Osha is correct in that you shall meet him shortly,” Catelyn tells him as they reach the yard, stopping in the middle of it and watching as the gate ponderously swings outward.

Around them, the household of House Mormont gathers, Lady Alysane and her sisters and children in front, she and her children behind them alongside the Reeds and Hodor as he supports Bran, and the remainder of the household behind them. As soon as the gate is opened, the direwolves sprint through it, and the clamor and commotion that is the reunion of Ghost with his littermates is heard by all. Still, the party of men is on foot, their progress slow, and it is many minutes before the first of them ambles in, looking ragged and haggard. Catelyn can feel the anticipatory energy rolling off of her children in waves, even little Jeor, who knows nothing of Jon Snow except that his arrival excites his brothers and sister. As perceptive as he is to the giddiness of his siblings, he seems completely oblivious to the turmoil that engulfs his mother at the same time.  
  
The last of the men file into the yard, and Catelyn note that they are not all clad in black. In fact, several have the look of wildlings, and this perplexes her. Turning, she finds Osha standing several feet back, her own face registering surprise at what she sees. Catelyn knows not how this had occurred, for even she, an outsider to the North before her marriage, knows that wildling and ‘crow’ do not get along. But these men are together, stand before the household as a collective unit, a unit that watches the gate until the last man enters, accompanied by four massive wolves.  
  
“Jon!” Arya screams in delight, darting between Lyanna and Alysandra to all but tackle her brother.  
  
“Little sister,” Jon says with a delighted smile, catching her up in his arms and lifting her off the ground, much like he used to do when they were younger … when life was simpler. “It does me good to see you.”  
  
Rickon, never one to be left out, follows Arya, and Jon sets his half-sister down to hug the boy. “Look at how you’ve grown,” Jon says to him, marveling at how tall the eight-year-old has become. Rickon is lean, the exact opposite of Rodrik, who has the hefty, stocky build of his family.  
  
The reunion is cut short, however, as Jon looks up to see all of the Mormont household assembled, and he quickly remembers courtesies, his face shifting from one of youthful joy at being with his siblings again to one of solemn duty, one that so mirrored his father’s.  
  
“Jon Snow, I would presume,” Lady Alysane begins, stepping forward and offering a curtsey. “I am Alysane Mormont, and you and your men are welcome on Bear Island.”  
  
“My lady,” Jon replies, a bow of his own. “We are most grateful for your welcome.”  
  
“My sisters and children,” Alysane says, introducing her siblings to her left and her children at her right. It is as Jon greets Alysandra that he looks up, past the girl, and Catelyn feels his eyes rest upon her, upon the child that clings to her hand, the child that shares his eyes. She watches for it, sees the spark of recognition in his face, and when his eyes rise to meet hers once again, she knows that he knows.  
  
“I trust that you remember Lady Stark,” Alysane tells him, breaking the silence that had formed as he had simply stared at him, “as well as King Brandon.” At this, Hodor steps forward and helps Bran to greet Jon, and his greeting for his younger brother is just as sincere and affectionate as the ones for Arya and Rickon, Catelyn knows that his awareness of her and Jeor does not fade, not if the glances that he keeps sending there way are any indication.  
  
“Lady Stark,” Jon says formally, bowing low as he turns from Bran. There is nothing improper in his actions, but he lingers a heartbeat longer than necessary, for the bow allows him a chance to observe the child more closely. Jeor must notice, for Catelyn feels him squeeze her hand as he begins to fidget slightly. For all that he is gregarious and affectionate, it is so only after he has had the chance to know someone. When first introduced, the boy is always shy.  
  
As though Jon picks up on the boy’s discomfort, he takes a knee where he stands, dropping himself to the lad’s level but not moving any closer. “But I fear,” he starts, his voice barely above a whisper as he looks at the boy that, in many ways, could be the very image of himself at that age, “I do not know you, my lord.”

“Jeor Stark,” the boy replies, leaning his head against his mother’s skirts as Catelyn runs a calming hand through his curls.  
  
The look of shock on Jon’s face is obvious to all, though there is no help for it. “Jeor Stark,” he repeats in disbelief.  
  
“Lady Stark does House Mormont a great honor,” Alysane starts, drawing attention away from the kneeling black brother. “We are truly humbled by her choice of name for her son.”  
  
“It is House Stark, Lady Alysane, who are indebted to House Mormont, and to Lord Commander Mormont, for the care and hospitality you have long shown us,” Catelyn answers, gratitude in every word. She will never tire of singing the praises of Alysane and her house, and as it happens to serve the double purpose of distracting all present from the man kneeling before her and her son, Catelyn is once again grateful.  
  
“Might you bring us some word, Jon Snow, of the Lord Commander, or of your reason for coming all this way?” Alysane asks, for now that the courtesies have been observed, the business of the Black Brothers’ arrival can be discerned.  
  
Lady Alysane’s words seem to snap Jon out of whatever reverie he had been in while looking at Jeor, and Catelyn sees a look of what she reads as sadness cross his long face.  
  
“Indeed, my lady,” Jon says with a sigh, pushing himself to his feet. As he turns to once again address Alysane, Catelyn notices that his hand falls to the pommel of his sword, not in a threatening way, but almost as though it soothes him, gives him purpose. “I fear there is much we need to discuss, my lady, but I do not believe this is the proper place to be doing so.”  
  
“I agree,” Alysane says, dismissing the household with instructions to see to Jon’s men before turning back to Jon himself. “Shall we retire to my solar?”  
  
“As you wish, my lady,” Jon answers with a nod.  
  
“Good,” Lady Alysane says with a decisive nod of her own. “Lady Stark, Lyra, I would ask that you two join us as well. Jorelle,” she starts, turning to face her youngest two sisters, “I trust you to see that everyone is settled. Lyanna, I leave you and Lady Meera to help Osha look after the children.” When she is satisfied that they will see her orders carried out, she turns back to Jon. “If you’ll come this way, Jon Snow, we shall discuss all that you wish.”  
  
Jon and Alysane walk side by side into the keep, Lyra right behind them, listening to everything. Catelyn hangs back, keeping as much distance between her and Jon as she can. The same is true of when they reach the solar, for she chooses a chair as far from Jon as she is able.  
  
“Will you not be cold sitting so far from the fire, Lady Stark?” he asks, noting her selection.  
  
“I am fine,” she says shortly. “It is you who have trudged through snow and bitter wind. You have more need of the fire than I.”  
  
“I must agree with Lady Stark,” Alysane says, motioning for Jon to take the seat as she sits herself behind her mother’s desk. “Now,” she begins, leveling a steady gaze on Jon, “talk.”  
  
And talk he does, most of it information no one in the room wishes to hear. Jon first speaks of her uncle, of his death at Craster’s Keep. Catelyn watches both Alysane and Lyra closely, but they are fighters, warriors, and news of death does nothing to alter the determined looks on their faces.  
  
“Lord Commander Mormont gave me this,” he says quietly, unfastening the scabbard from his belt and laying his sword on the desk before Alysane. It means nothing to Catelyn, is merely a sword, not like Ice, not nearly as long, but to the Mormont sisters, it seems to mean a great deal, as Alysane lifts it almost reverently and Lyra rises to stand beside her sister, her eyes never leaving the blade.  
  
“Longclaw,” Lyra whispers as Alysane slowly wraps her fingers around the hilt, gently pulling a few inches of the blade from the scabbard.  
  
“Aye,” Alysane says quietly with a slow nod. This is the sword of House Mormont, Catelyn realizes suddenly, now understanding why the girls gaze upon it so. Angling the hilt, Catelyn watches as Alysane rolls it slowly in her hand, inspecting it. “This is new,” she says, looking to Jon Snow in explanation of the wolf’s head that now adorns the hilt.

“Lord Commander Mormont was attacked by a wight,” Jon explains, pausing to let the words sink in. The look of shock that crosses their faces is most certainly reflected on her own, for though Catelyn had long heard tales of the wights and the Others in her time in the North, she had never thought to hear any of them made to be true. “I fought the wight, fought to save his life, and in the battle, the hilt of the blade was damaged. Afterward, he had it repaired, only he had the wolf fashioned instead of what it had been originally. That was when he gave it to me. And now,” Jon says quietly, “I return it to you, to House Mormont.”  
  
“My uncle must have thought very highly of you, Jon Snow,” Alysane finally says after many long moments. “He honored you greatly, not only in giving you this sword, but in fashioning it so.” Standing, Alysane holds the blade out to the black brother, explaining, “This sword is yours, Jon Snow. My uncle honored you thusly, and I would ask that you continue to honor his memory and our house by carrying it, keeping it with you and using it to continue to defend the realm, to serve the Watch and the new Lord Commander just as he did.”  
  
“If that is what you wish, Lady Alysane, then I shall carry this sword with the honor my father taught me and that the Lord Commander showed me,” Jon answers, rising to accept the blade with a bow. His mention of Ned sends a sting of pain and guilt through Catelyn, though she tries to hide it as best she can. “And as to the new Lord Commander,” he begins as he secures the sword once again, “that is part of the reason for my coming here, for I have been elected to the post.”  
  
“You?” Catelyn asks on a whisper, the word leaving her before she can think to stop it.  
  
“Aye,” Jon replies, turning, his words and face hard as he looks upon her.  
  
Catelyn, for her part, does not flinch or look away. He may hate her all he wishes, it matters not to her. In actuality, she had meant no disrespect in the question, it was only genuine shock. He is young, she thinks, for such a post, though at twenty, she supposes his brothers in black deem him old enough. The Mormonts call Bran ‘King’ when he is not yet one and ten. To be Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch at twenty, by comparison, seems less of a stretch.  
  
“Congratulations, Lord Snow,” Alysane says formally with a small inclination of her head. “That is an honorable position to have attained, and I thank you for continuing to carry Longclaw as you do your duty to the Night’s Watch.”  
  
“You say you come on Watch business,” Lyra starts, retaking her seat along with Jon and Lady Alysane. “You must know that we will ever support the Night’s Watch, but we have no men to give to you. The winter has been harsh, and we need all that comprise this household to survive.”  
  
“I understand, Lady Lyra, and I do not come in search of men,” Jon answers with a shake of his head. “I come to offer warning, so that you all might be safe.” Sparing all three women a glance, Jon lets his gaze finally rest on Lady Alysane as he says, “Our ranks have been replenished as of late, both with wildling and the soldiers that serve Stannis Baratheon.”  
  
“There are wildlings in your party that arrived today,” Catelyn notes quietly.  
  
Jon looks to her briefly, eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he appraises her, searches for any traces of vitriol. He must be satisfied that he sees none, for he nods once and, turning his attention back to Alysane, says, “The wildlings knew winter was coming long before the Citadel. They united behind the King Beyond the Wall, a former sworn brother called Mance Rayder, and they marched south. They crossed the Wall, mostly by climbing it, to make their way south in order to survive. I infiltrated a band of them for a time, and afterward, when I returned to the Watch, was able to convince many of them to join us in defense against the darkness that lurks beyond.”  
  
“You speak of wights, and Others,” Alysane says quietly.  
  
“I do,” Jon answers with a firm nod. “I know it sounds daft, but I have seen them, my lady, I have fought them. They exist, their evil is real.” With a pregnant pause, he adds, “And they look to breech the Wall.”  
  
“Gods be good,” Catelyn gasps, a hand going to her chest.

“Have they succeeded?” Lyra asks quietly, firmly. The Others and wights, if they walk south of the Wall, could easily walk right up to the defenses of Bear Island, just as Jon Snow’s party had done. The thought terrifies Catelyn.  
  
“In places,” Jon admits, “though mostly to the east. They have been spotted by the brother’s at Eastwatch, and we have reports of them from Long Barrow.”  
  
“I believed Long Barrow castle to be abandoned?” Alysane asks, her brow furrowing.  
  
“It was,” Jon explains, “but I am in the process of garrisoning as many of the abandoned castles as is possible. I have a contingent of spear wives and wildlings manning Long Barrow, and we have wildling garrisons in Greyguard, Shadow Tower, Stonedoor, Deep Lake, Oakenshield, and Greenguard as well, though Queensgate is in the hands of Morna White Mask, a gift to her and her people, and Sable Hall is manned with wildlings following the command of sworn brothers. Icemark is manned now with men of Stannis’ company as well as brothers of the Watch, though I ceded the Nightfort to him completely, as a trade of sorts. Eastwatch-by-the-Bridge is being repaired as we speak.”  
  
“Stannis left you men when he went south to battle the Boltons?” Alysane asks, surprised. Catelyn had been present when the younger woman had received the raven from the would-be king, asking for her fealty, for her armies. The man has suffered losses, has seen his troops diminished. It is surprising, then, that he would spare men for the Watch to man derelict castles.  
  
“He understands that he cannot win the North if he must battle Boltons to his south and Others to his north,” Jon explains. “Moreover, he knows that if he is seen to defend the Wall, it will hopefully endear him to the Northern houses, might sway their fealty from House Bolton to him.”  
  
“Traitors to their liege, all of them,” Lyra hisses, a dark look in her eyes.  
  
“Whatever fealty they pledge, whether to Bolton or Baratheon, Lady Lyra, it is done for their survival, so that they might endure long enough to see House Stark reclaim what is rightfully theirs. Remember, words are wind,” Jon answers firmly. “The location of King Brandon is not well known outside of a select few of the Night’s Watch, and all brothers who knew of it were sworn to speak nothing of it to Stannis’ men. But rest assured, the North knows their king lives, and when the time comes, those houses that have ever been loyal to House Stark will be so again. This I firmly believe.”  
  
“I pray that you are right, Lord Commander,” Lady Alysane tells him, though she stills shares her sister’s bitter look. “Tell me, Lord Snow, how do I defend my people? How do I kill these creatures?”  
  
“Fire will kill a wight, flaming arrows are best,” Jon starts, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees as though he is discussing battle strategy. In a way he is, I suppose, Catelyn thinks. “Any man, woman, child, or beast felled by a wight or an Other must be burned, or they will rise up again to fight and kill. It is not immediate, but it is quick, and torches must be on hand at all times to set the bodies aflame, for they rise again with vicious purpose.”  
  
“And the Others?” Lyra asks, and Catelyn can see her mentally taking stock of all that Jon tells them.  
  
“Dragonglass,” Jon says, reaching into his cloak and retrieving a handful of small arrowheads. All three women lean closer, trying to get a better look. “These are all that will kill an Other. No sword, no steel will fell them, only this.”  
  
“The boys have some of those,” Catelyn says quietly, and she feels three sets of eyes fall to her. “Maester Luwin had them in his turret, he showed them to Bran and Rickon. Osha said the wildlings still carry blades made of this.” Turning her gaze from the arrowheads to Jon, she says, “Luwin let them keep them.”  
  
“Did they bring them when you all fled Winterfell?” Jon asks, his voice hopeful.  
  
“I know not,” Catelyn replies with a shake of her head, thinking back to those days, the panic involved in the haste with which they had made their escape. “But I can find out, and I can ask Osha if she still carries a weapon such as this.”

“Do, my lady,” Jon encourages, eyes firm. “I have men in each of the castles we are garrisoning scouring the rooms and passageways that have been abandoned for years. I have found caches of these in Castle Black, I can only hope that more are found in the other castles along the Wall. I will leave you all that I can when I leave, but these weapons are hard to come by. Any that can be found are prized, and if the princes have them, they will be useful if this island ever need be defended against the Others.”  
  
“We have a plan, then,” Alysane says with a firm nod as she stands. “I thank you, Lord Commander, for coming all this way to warn us in person, thought I suspect,” she starts with a small smirk, “that it is the current residents of this keep that cause you to bring the information personally.”  
  
“My first priority is the Watch, always, my lady,” Jon states, a small smile of his own forming, “but there is truth in your words all the same.”  
  
“Indeed,” Alysane says, now smiling fully. “Lady Lyra will show you to your chambers, Lord Snow. Rest, I am sure you have need of it. When you are ready, possibly before dinner, I would like for you to consult with our master-at-arms. I will go to him now and tell him all that you have relayed to us, but I would like for you to speak with him as well. In the meantime, Lady Stark will go to the princes and Osha, will find out if we have any of these dragonglass weapons already in our possession.”  
  
“Very good, my lady,” Jon replies, bowing respectfully before turning to leave, though he does throw Catelyn a loaded look as he follows Lady Lyra out of the solar.  
  
Catelyn watches him go, her face emotionless. If only her inner thoughts could be as calm. He is angry with her, but that is no surprise, for he has likely been angry with her all his life. But something in that look was not solely anger, was something more … something deeper.  
  
“I know not what is between the two of you, Lady Stark, nor do I care,” Alysane says quietly, moving to stand beside the Lady of Winterfell. “He has come for our aid, and I know you are as grateful for that as I if it will protect our children.” Catelyn can only nod, choosing to say nothing until she learns Alysane’s intent. “But you are ever my lady. We stand with you, no matter what.”  
  
“I thank you for that, Lady Alysane,” Catelyn says, holding the woman’s gaze to ensure that her gratitude is known. “And now, by your leave, my lady, I shall do as you asked and see to my sons and what they may know of these dragonglass weapons.”  
  
The conversation with her boys is fruitful, for it yields several dragonglass arrow tips as well as two spearheads. Osha, though carrying none of the weapons herself, knows how to best fashion them on spears and arrows, information that may prove helpful. And all the while, Jeor sits on her hip, watching all that goes on around them and asking dozens of questions, most of which she cannot – or will not – answer. The boys and Arya are glad to answer them in her place, however, though most of the stories come from Arya and Bran, as Rickon had been very young when Jon had gone to the Wall, telling Jeor of their memories of their brother. Jeor listens intently to these stories, just as he does when they speak of their memories of Robb. He loves stories, the true ones especially. They always help to put him to sleep.  
  
“Mama,” Jeor asks sleepily, his head resting heavily on her shoulder as she carries him into her room to put him down for a nap, “is Jon my brother, too?”  
  
“No, my son,” Catelyn answers quietly as she lays him atop the furs and brushes back the dark curls from the boy’s forehead as he settles. “Jon is not your brother.”  
  
“Oh,” he says, and Catelyn hears a touch of sadness in his voice. The stories they have told him have done more than entertain him, they have intrigued him. “But he is Rickon and Bran and Arya’s brother?”  
  
“Yes, sweetling,” Catelyn answers with a small nod, brushing gently, soothingly through his hair with her long fingers, trying to coax him into sleep and away from further questions, “they share a father.” She hopes that the anguish she still feels in making that statement is not visible to her son.

“Oh,” Jeor says, yawning as he rolls toward her, curling up on his side. “Alright,” he sighs sleepily, and Catelyn waits until she sees his breathing even out before she rises from the bed, intent to leave him to his dreams until his sleepy voice asks airily, “My father is not theirs.”  
  
The statement steals the air from her chest as she freezes on the spot. Catelyn can hear the blood pound in her ears as she slowly turns back toward the bed. Her little boy is asleep, eyes shut and face peaceful, but his last statement has wreaked all kinds of havoc within his mother’s heart.  
  
Catelyn knew a day would come when she would be forced to answer his questions about his father, but she never could have guessed it might come so soon. True, he has asked no questions yet, but for the first time in his young life, Jeor has knowledge of the difference between himself and his siblings, and Catelyn knows it will only be a matter of time before that knowledge prompts him to begin to wonder. He is a bright child, and she has always encouraged his curiosity, but she knew it could, and likely would, eventually lead them to places she would rather he not venture. She had hoped that life on Bear Island would delay his questioning, for none of Lady Alysane’s children have a father, nor do Lady Alysane or her sisters, and no one ever speaks of it or questions it. Jeor’s siblings speak of Ned often, so he is aware of the concept of a father, but with no true representation of one anywhere in household, the boy has never wanted for one. Jon’s arrival has ruined all of that, turned their isolated world on its head in a matter of hours.  
  
But he will be gone soon, Catelyn reminds herself as she takes in a calming breath and regroups. He has only come to give them warning of possible danger, and then, as Lord Commander, he will return to the Wall and leave them be. And when he goes, Catelyn can only pray that Jeor’s questions will go with him, for though curious, his attention span is a short as one would expect for a boy his age, and that may be her saving grace.  
  
It is that thought that sustains her through the remainder of the day, through the dinner that is more raucous than normal, thanks largely to their guests. The weary men that had entered the yard earlier are transformed with rest into a loud, brash crowd, trading laughs and japes with one another and the household. Jon, as Lord Commander, sits at the high table with the family, though most of his attention is held by his siblings, who monopolize him in conversation. At first, he tries to get them to talk about their life on Bear Island, get Arya to open up about her trek north to reunite with them, but they grow bored of that, for they all know those stories. No, what they want to hear is stories of the Wall. Even Jeor, who slips from her lap and runs to Arya when Jon first begins to speak of the Wall, much to Catelyn’s chagrin.  
  
“It is alright, Mother,” Arya tells her, pulling her little brother onto her lap, “Jon doesn’t mind, and I’ll make sure he doesn’t hear anything that might scare him.”  
  
It isn’t nightmares that Catelyn fears, at least not nightmares for her son. No, it is the living nightmare of watching her son sit so close to Jon, watching him hang on the man’s every word, that bothers her, especially when Arya, who wants to demonstrate something that her dancing instructor had taught her, passes Jeor off to Jon as she stands.  
  
“Syrio used to say,” Arya starts, whipping Needle about in, what Catelyn can concede, is a very elaborate series of movements that look as though they would serve the purpose disarming an opponent, “that there is only one god, and his name is Death.” Smirking as she uses Needle to tip over an empty goblet, she spears it, springs it into the air, and catches it again with the narrow sword as she says, “And there is only one thing we say to Death.”  
  
“Not today,” Bran, Rickon, Rodrik, Alysandra, and Jeor all chant in unison, laughing. It is a quote they have all heard regularly about the Braavosi swordsman, one that always leaves Catelyn feeling a bit cold inside, for the look she sees in her daughter’s grey eyes anytime she speaks of it worries her, for she thinks that mayhap Arya took the man a bit too literally.

With one last flourish, Arya flings the goblet up over her shoulder, catching the cup in hand behind her back, bowing as everyone cheers. Jeor claps enthusiastically, always entertained by Arya’s skill with her Needle, as is Catelyn, though her smile fades as she sees Jon wrap an arm around Jeor’s waist, keeping him sitting steadily in his lap. The resemblance is uncanny, for Catelyn had watched day to day as Jon Snow had grown up, remembers well how it had pained her then to see his resemblance to Ned, though she has never felt anything of the like with Jeor.  
  
“You are quite the swordswoman now, Arya,” Jon compliments, cuddling Jeor closer as the little boy leans back into him. “I’m sure you and Lady Alysandra give the master-at-arms no end of trouble.”  
  
“It’s not just us,” Alysandra defends. “The boys are worse, let me tell you.”  
  
“Are not!” Rodrik and Rickon cry, Rodrik glaring at his older sister.  
  
“So long as you are learning,” Jon soothes with a chuckle, absentmindedly running a hand through Jeor’s hair, causing the little boy to laugh.  
  
“Is that why Mother asked us for our arrowheads?” Bran asks, his face serious as he looks at Jon. All the children quiet and look at Bran oddly, but he only continues to stare at Jon. “We will have to fight, won’t we?”  
  
Catelyn stops breathing as the question leaves Bran’s mouth, and at the table above her, she can see Lady Alysane tense. They had not wanted to tell the children of the danger that might be approaching, but it would seem now that they will have no choice.  
  
But then Jon Snow surprises her, for she watches him smile and, though she still sees the concern in his eyes, he covers it well as he says reassuringly, “You will fight no one, Bran. The Night’s Watch stands ready to do its duty, to protect all of you.” He looks encouragingly to all the children, but pauses longest as he gazes down at Jeor in his lap, his next words whispered as he looks at the little boy, saying, “I swear it.”  
  
The children accept his answer, and Catelyn relaxes a bit as their conversation steers to other things, to stories of Jon’s life at the Wall, of the journeys he has made beyond it, of the wildlings, of the castles that are being re-manned and prepared. They hang on his every word, and Catelyn is once again reminded that though she is of the south, she has indeed mothered wolves, that her children are truly of the North. She is glad of it, though she never thought she would be, glad of their connection to their father, to Ned, glad that he lives still within each of them … even Jeor.  
  
As the meal passes, Catelyn watches as Jeor’s head begins to droop, though he tries to hide it, tries to act as though he is not tired, but she isn’t fooled. Catelyn has raised too many children, has seen them battle sleep too many times in an effort to stay awake long past when they should be abed, to be deceived. And it is when she finally sees him lean back against Jon’s shoulder and go still that Catelyn rises, excuses herself from her conversation with Alysane and Lyra, and goes to her son, fully intending to take Jeor to bed.  
  
But her son has different ideas, for as soon as she reaches for him, tries to pull him away, the boy fusses, throwing his small arms around Jon’s neck and holding tight.  
  
“Do not do this, Jeor,” Catelyn says quietly, though her voice is firm. “It is time for little boy’s to find their beds.”  
  
“Jon take me,” he whines tiredly, sinking deeper into Jon’s hold, tucking his head under Jon’s chin, and Catelyn stills as she watches her son’s hair and Jon’s beard blend, the colors all but identical.  
  
With an exasperated sigh, she starts, “Jeor –”  
  
“I’ll take him,” Jon volunteers, standing, staring her down as though daring her to argue. Catelyn bristles, sees the answering spark of anger in his eyes, and she bites her tongue, not wishing to cause a scene, one she would rather not have to explain to all present, particularly her other children, who look between her and Jon now as though they await a showdown.

“Very well,” Catelyn answers, her voice clipped, her back straight, chin held high. “Follow me,” she orders, turning on her heel and walking from the table without hesitation, Jon’s booted footfalls behind her. They leave the hall and walk through the keep in silence, and for that, Catelyn is grateful. She has no desire to speak with him with Jeor still able to hear, to question.  
  
Jeor’s quarters are adjacent her own, and in little time, Catelyn is pushing open the door, Jon following her inside. The bed is already turned down, courtesy of the chambermaid who minds the rooms of all her children, and Jon needs no instruction as he gently lays the boy on the linens.  
  
“Step aside,” Catelyn says quietly, shooing Jon to the side as she sits on the edge of the bed beside Jeor, making swift work of his jerkin, leaving him in his under-tunic, which she quickly unties at his neck, and breeches. Shimmying him out of his boots, Catelyn sets them by the foot of the bed before slipping an arm under his knees, lifting his legs long enough to free the furs from beneath him before sliding them back under and pulling the fur up to his shoulders. Jeor rolls onto his side, toward his mother, and snuggles deeper into the pillow as his eyelids flutter.  
  
“Good night, my son,” Catelyn says, leaning over and pressing a kiss to his cheek.  
  
“No, Mama,” Jeor mutters, shaking his head faintly against the pillow. “Sing to me, please.”  
  
“Oh, I see,” Catelyn says, smiling even as she senses Jon Snow lingering just over her shoulder. “Well, my sweetling, what would you have me sing?”  
  
“Sing the rivers,” Jeor replies, his voice thick with sleep as he rubs at this eye with a small fist.  
  
“As you wish, sweetling,” Catelyn tells him, brushing her fingers gently over his forehead, toying with the stray curls that fall across it. Just to tease, she asks, “Can you remind your Mama how it starts?”  
  
“Mama,” Jeor whines, though he still grins even in his protest. “Roll, roll, roll along with me …”  
  
“Roll, roll, roll along with me, down a fork of Trident three,” Catelyn starts, picking up the tune and carrying on, spinning a song of her childhood to the boy, a song that she has sung to all of her children at some point or another. She weaves the melody, Jeor occasionally humming along at the first, though in only a few refrains of the tune, he is breathing deeply and evenly. “And when in fear, look up at the stars, for then I’ll always be where you are,” Catelyn sings softly, ending the song with a smile to match the contented one on the face of her sleeping babe. “Rest well, child.”  
  
Catelyn rises from the bed, turns, and is surprised to find Jon standing there, studying her with an odd expression on his face. Instead of questioning him, however, Catelyn is content to stand there, content not to speak, for submitting to his scrutiny gives no life to words she does not want to hear spoken.  
  
“You love him,” Jon says, voice barely more than a whisper. The statement riles her, and Jon must see this, for he says, “I am shocked that you did not cast him out as soon as you learned of him, but to see that you love him, I–”  
  
“He is my son,” Catelyn interrupts quietly, walking toward the door, glad when Jon follows. She wants to put some distance between them and Jeor, but she must ensure that no one listens. Checking the hall quickly and finding it empty, Catelyn steps back inside and shuts the door, turning to face Jon once again. “I do not see you when I look at him.” Seeing the flicker of ire in his eyes, Catelyn shakes her head, saying, “That was not meant to hurt you, though given our history, you likely do not believe me sincere when I say that, but I am. I am simply telling you what is fact.”  
  
“Then who do you see when you look at him, when you look at the child gotten upon you by a man you despise?” Jon asks harshly, his gaze falling back to the sleeping boy.

“I see your father,” Catelyn answers simply, her eyes following his. She knows he is angry, wants to evoke the same in her, and he is almost succeeding, but Catelyn knows she must tamp it down as much as she is able. Just get through this, she thinks, get through this and then he will soon be gone. “I see the child that I should have been able to give my lord husband, the babe I longed to give to him.” Looking back at Jon, she waits until he meets her eyes again before saying, “I never thought to shed him, not seriously, because he is a part of Ned, his grandchild. I could no more be rid of him than I could Bran or Rickon or Arya.”  
  
“But you could have been rid of me so easily,” Jon fires back. “I was nothing to you, am still nothing to you, yet here I stand another part of the lord husband you love so much. And yet I am nothing.” With a pause, he stares at her, almost seems to stare through her as he says, “All because I am not yours.”  
  
“Yes,” Catelyn answers coolly, jaw clenching as she forces herself to wait, to take her time in choosing her next words. “You are no part of me, you are a dishonor to me.”  
  
“Even when I bring you the son that you craved?” Jon snaps on a hiss, leaning in closer. “Do you regret that night?”  
  
“Yes!” Catelyn hisses in return, refusing to back down. “I never should have lain down with you! I should have been stronger, stronger than my grief, but I was so tired of being strong. Still, you shamed me all those years in Winterfell but I shamed myself that night, this I will admit. But never,” she starts, pointing a finger in his face, “believe for a moment that I am ashamed of that child. I love that child, no differently than any other babe I have given life.”  
  
“And as such, you have called him ‘Stark’,” Jon says, and though she still hears the anger, the resentment, his voice seems to have lost some of its petulance.  
  
“That was none of my doing,” Catelyn retorts with a shake of her head. “I told no one of my suspicions about the babe until Lady Alysane confronted me. Her only concern was that the child had come to me by force, but when I assured her that such had not been the case, that her uncle had protected us from anything of that nature, she let it alone. The boys know little enough about such things to question it, and by the time Arya arrived, he was here and she simply accepted that, accepted him as her brother. But it was Lady Alysane who insisted upon calling him ‘Stark’. With his eyes, his hair, his face, there is no denying he carries Stark blood. She thought I should call him ‘Eddard’, but I could not. And Lord Jeor and House Mormont had saved us, so the name was fitting. But she still insisted upon ‘Stark’. I protested, for it had been over a year since I had been with my lord husband, and she well knew that the babe had come to me at the Wall. But she reminded me of her own children, the ones she claims are fathered by a bear. She said Jeor had been fathered by winter itself, and who but a Stark could claim winter as a father?”  
  
“And you agreed,” Jon says quietly, though she reads the accusations in his face.  
  
“And what would you have had me do, Jon Snow? Give him your name?” Catelyn asks, finally unable to hold back her temper. “To what purpose? To curse him with a life like yours, growing up alongside his trueborn siblings, the King in the North, and know that his name alone makes him less?”  
  
“It is the fate to which you cursed me,” he retorts angrily.  
  
“No, do not lay that at my feet,” Catelyn bites back. “Your lord father cursed you to that fate when he could have left you with your mother, seen to your care but allowed you to grow up away from such scrutiny. I had no such luxury with Jeor, for I would not be separated from my child. I gave him what you could not.” She says it wish such finality that is hits her as hard as she sees it hits him. But, in her heart, Catelyn knows it to be true. “You cannot argue that. What can you give him, really, aside from a name bearing ridicule and garb of black?”  
  
“My love,” Jon asserts quietly, though she knows that he hears the acquiescence in his voice just as she does.

“Oh yes, because you of all people know well how that would have sustained him against the bitterness of those who would put him down or mock him,” Catelyn starts angrily. “You should know better than anyone that he would be scorned for his name, and then add to that the fact that his father is an oathbreaker, having gotten him upon his mother well after making his vows to the Watch.” Her words cut, she knows this, but it is a reality that he must see. Jeor can never know, and while Catelyn knows that Jon Snow does likely love this boy that he has only just met, for there is enough of Ned in him that he would love the child without ever setting eyes upon him, it must be in the name of that love that he must now act in the boy’s best interest. “Jon,” she starts quietly, seeing his eyes snap to hers at the use of his first name alone, “you must see that it is better for him to be called ‘Stark’. Do not be jealous or bitter that he has what you never could, be glad of it. Be glad for him and do not interfere.”  
  
“Is it interference to want to know my son?” Jon asks quietly, once again looking to Jeor.  
  
“No,” Catelyn answers, honestly with a shake of her head, for it must be hard, but it must be done, “but he can never know what you are to him, for it would only hurt him. You are bound to the Wall, you are Lord Commander. You vowed to father no children, you would have to leave him behind, you will leave him behind now when you leave Bear Island, and if he knew, it would hurt him deeply.”  
  
“And it would shame you,” Jon retorts weakly, and Catelyn can read the remark for what it is, one last volley in a battle he knows he is losing.  
  
“It would, I will not deny that,” Catelyn says, and she feels her resolve hardening at the thought that he might be implying that he will somehow threaten her with this, though she knows, rationally, that he will not, “but at this moment, I think only of him, of his pain. Through everything that has passed in these years, I have learned that I can endure a great deal, but I will not see my children suffer, not needlessly if it can be helped.”  
  
The words hang between them, but Catelyn does not flinch, does not look away. She cannot afford to, cannot be seen to weaken on this. Things must be this way, and he must see it.  
  
Without a word, Jon turns from her, walks to the bed and kneels beside it. Catelyn does not move, dares not breathe, as she watches him lay a work-roughened hand gently over the crown of the boy’s head, hears a whisper leave his lips but cannot discern the words, before she sees him press a kiss to the babe’s forehead. Rising, he strides purposefully to stand before her once again, a look of pure determination in his eyes. Catelyn studies his face as he reaches into his cloak, looking down only when he holds something out to her.  
  
“Take it,” he says quietly, indicating the dagger with a black blade – Dragonglass, she realizes suddenly – that rests in his open palm. “If we fail, if I fail, use this to protect you both.” She does not move, so Jon does it for her, taking her hand and pressing the weapon into her open palm, closing her fingers over it with his. With a brief squeeze, he holds onto her hand a moment longer than he should as he says, “It is not much, but it is all I can do, all I can offer. Keep him well, keep him safe.”  
  
Catelyn’s only reply is a nod. Words fail her for a time as she stares at the weapon in her hand. He has conceded, he has given in to what she wants, and she should be pleased, but Catelyn quickly realizes that she is not. This is a revelation, one she is unsure of how to deal with, not until he has already slipped past her and out the door without another word.  
  
“Wait!” she calls, darting out after him, stopping when she sees him halt a few feet away. He does not turn, and she watches him hang his head, as though just standing there is destroying him. Mayhap it is, she thinks, unable to imagine walking away from one of her children as he does now. But she does not ask him to come back, does not even ask him to turn. Nothing can change, she knows this, but against her better judgment, Catelyn gives the man a small concession. “You will remain on Bear Island for some days, yes?”

“Yes, Lady Stark,” Jon says, though he does not turn back to her. “No more than two, and then we will return to Westwatch, then on to Castle Black.”  
  
“Then it would seem you have more to offer than just a blade,” she tells him, the words hanging in the hall between them until he finally turns, a curiously hopeful look on his face. “Time, as you will learn, Jon Snow, is a very valuable thing.”  
  
She leaves then, disappears back into the room and back to her babe, leaving the man to his thoughts. That is as close as Catelyn will come to inviting him to visit, but it serves its purpose in the end, for over the next two days, as Jon spends time with his siblings in between consulting with the master-at-arms and Lady Alysane about the castle’s defenses, he also spends time with Jeor, for the lad, ever since he could walk, has trailed after his older brothers and Rodrik. It does not seem odd to anyone, therefore, when Jon picks him up to give him a better look at Rickon and Rodrik as they spar in the practice yard or as he shows the boy the proper way to hold his little wooden practice sword or when he oversees Arya showing him – Again, he never pays attention when I show him this, Catelyn hears her explain to Jon – how to properly notch an arrow. It just looks as though the Lord Commander is using what time he has to be with his family. And if anyone thinks otherwise, one look at Catelyn would erase any doubts, for those that knew them all in Winterfell would see her acting no differently toward Jon Snow, only seeming to tolerate his presence at the behest of Lady Alysane. That is how she means it to be, how she needs it to be, but all the while, when she sees Jeor laughing, beaming, enjoying his time spent with the Lord Commander and his siblings, Catelyn concedes that she has done the right thing to allow him these memories.  
  
It makes the Lord Commander’s leaving difficult, but then, it is difficult for all her children, Arya holding tightly to Jon, the last big brother she has left in this world, Rickon pouting as he makes his goodbyes, Bran stoically looking on, his solemn expression made up of every ounce of Stark blood he has. Jeor cries at his departure, as small children are wont to do, but Jon remains firm, wearing the lord’s face that reminds her so much of Ned that it pains her. He does, however, offer the little boy a small smile and a ruffle of his hair as he stands at Bran’s side, holding tightly to his oldest brother’s hand.  
  
“Mind Lady Stark and Lady Alysane,” Jon instructs them all as he kneels before them, putting himself on eye level with Jeor while looking up at the rest.  
  
“When will you come back?” Rickon asks sadly.  
  
“I know not,” Jon answers honestly. “But worry not about me. Your concern must be with the maintenance of House Stark, with seeing you all returned to Winterfell.”  
  
“If we ever return to Winterfell,” Bran says morosely.  
  
“We will,” Arya tells him firmly, her dark eyes flashing.  
  
“Yes, you will,” Jon agrees, looking to Bran comfortingly, “and when you are able, you must be prepared. You will reclaim your home, and all will be well once more.”  
  
“It is your home, too,” Arya protests.  
  
“My home is the Wall, little sister,” Jon tells her resolutely, “but you must be ready to return, and you must make Jeor welcome there.” At this, he smiles at the little boy as he says, “He has never known Winterfell, but he is a Stark, and you must teach him all you know of it, all the rooms and your hiding places and what not.”  
  
Catelyn watches the look that passes over Jon’s face as he continues to gaze at the babe, the different emotions that flicker quickly across his countenance. He lets his eyes linger longer than Catelyn would like, longer than she is comfortable with in front of so many people, but then he is standing, moving away and readying his men before turning back to where she stands at Lady Alysane’s side.  
  
“You are certain you have no need of horses, Lord Commander?” Alysane asks, glancing past Jon to watch the men as they gather the last of their things.

“None, my lady, though I thank you,” Jon answers with a shake of his head, “but our horses await us at the shore with a small party of my men. We dared not bring them onto the ice in fear that it might not hold their weight coupled with ours, but we have them still. It will be less than a day’s walk to reach them, and then we will ride on to Westwatch.”  
  
“And how will you find your way, Lord Snow?” Lady Lyra asks, puzzled. “Once beyond sight of the island, how will you not lose your bearings?”  
  
“Ghost will guide us,” Jon replies, glancing to the great white direwolf that seems to be saying his own goodbyes to his littermates. However, upon mention of his name, the wolf begins to trot back across the yard, back to his master’s side.  
  
“Ghost!” Jeor calls as the animal lopes past, and Catelyn watches as her little boy darts out, throwing his arms around the wolf’s neck. Everyone watches now as the direwolf sits back on his haunches and lets the child hug him, watches as the wolf lowers his head and licks affectionately at the babe’s face. His giggles seem to please the animal, but as he raises his head and looks to his master, Ghost stands, lowers his muzzle and prods Jeor in the back, scooting him back in his mother’s direction as he rejoins Jon.  
  
Catelyn scoops up the boy quickly, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head as she situates him on her hip. It is as she absentmindedly turns back to the Lord Commander, expecting that his attention will still be focused on Lady Alysane and her sister, that she finds him watching her instead, with an intensity that is almost unnerving.  
  
“You protect the hope and future of the North, my lady,” Jon says quietly to Alysane, though his gaze never leaves her and Jeor.  
  
“And we are glad to do so, Lord Commander,” Alysane answers, pride in her words as she stands a bit taller. “You see to the Wall, Lord Snow, see to whatever is beyond it. We will see to the Starks.”  
  
“I have no doubt,” Jon says confidently, bowing respectfully to them, though he looks pointedly at her as he rises. He offers no words, however, just a lingering look at Jeor before he turns and rounds up his men, giving them the order to march. With a nod of his head, Ghost bounds out before them, leading the way, Jon waiting until all his men file past before he falls in behind them, not sparing a look back as he leaves the castle.  
  
The children race to the battlements to watch, and Jeor squirms to get down, to follow them. As soon as Catelyn lowers him enough for his feet to touch the ground, he races off, after his siblings. Catelyn and the older Mormont sisters are less enthusiastic, taking their time to climb the stairs and join the children. By the time Catelyn reaches the top of the wall, the men are black dots on an endless canvas of white, growing smaller with each moment that passes. They remain there, watching, until those dots are mere pinpricks, and then nothing, no trace of them against the backdrop of snow. At this, the three wolves that have joined them let out a mournful howl just as a cold gust blows across the bulwarks. “Come,” Catelyn says to her children, picking Jeor up and cuddling him close against the chill, “it is time to go in.” It is time to move on, she cannot help but think as she ushers her children down the steps before her.  
  


* * *

  
He looks at the blade in his hand. It is small, even for a dagger, but as the moonlight glimmers off the obsidian blade, he knows that the size of the weapon is deceptive, that it can do what any other blade cannot, knows that his father gave it to his mother to protect them when he could not be there to do so.  
  
“Jeor.”  
  
He turns to find his mother approaching, her cloak pulled tightly around her to stave off the cold. He smiles as he sees her hair seem to burn in the light the torches cast from the doorway, only to glitter when she steps beyond it as the rays of the moon catch the silver that is beginning to thread its way among the auburn locks. Reaching out, Jeor pulls her to his side in an effort to help keep her warm, choosing not to comment on the fact that, at three and ten, he can look her in the eye.  
  
“Arya said she thought she saw you slip out here,” Catelyn says, leaning into him. “You should come back inside, where it is warm.”

“Cold, you say, Mother?” Jeor asks her with a jape, one side of his mouth twitching up in a smirk. “The winter is ending, the snows are melting. And besides, I am born of winter, am I not? What is the cold to me, really?”  
  
“Well, your dear mother is not quite as fortunate,” Catelyn replies, smiling widely. With laughter dancing in her eyes, she slips her arm around his and says, “And as such, you should escort me back inside, back to the celebration.”  
  
It is indeed a celebration, one to rival all others he can remember. All the North, it seems, has descended upon them for Rickon’s eighteenth nameday festivities. They have come to Winterfell to celebrate the birth of the King in the North, and with the announcement just minutes ago of Rickon’s betrothal to Alysandra Mormont, the raucous party has become even more so.  
  
They had returned to Winterfell, or what was left of it, six years ago. The long winter had been their ally, weakening the Boltons until they could no longer hold the ancestral home of House Stark. It weakened their enemies south as well, those that were unprepared for how to deal with the savageness of the cold, and when they were able, those that had long remained loyal to House Stark and the North – Howland Reed, Maege Mormont, the Blackfish, and the ragtag forces they still mustered – led a campaign against their enemies, starting with those that had held his mother’s childhood home. They had freed Riverrun with relative ease, for those weakling Freys and their Lannister allies had offered little resistance when faced with the brutal winter, and as soon as the Greatjon and the other prisoners from the Red Wedding once again breathed free air, the factions of House Umber had reunited firmly behind House Stark, as did many of the houses that had shifted their allegiances for a time. Coupled with the continued skirmishes between Bolton and Baratheon men, the Bolton’s had been annihilated and Stannis left without enough forces to push for anyone to recognize his crown, at least in the North, and so the Starks returned to Winterfell unimpeded, escorted by a kind of honor guard from Bear Island back to their rightful home. Though damaged from the fire that had ravaged it when they had fled all those years ago, the castle was still livable, and in the time that they had been back, they had overseen massive renovations, and though Arya and Rickon have told him that it is not exactly as they remember, it is remarkably close.  
  
Their return to Winterfell had not ended all of their troubles, of course. There was still a war waging in the south, one that his great uncle had returned to fight, alongside his recently freed uncle and the rightful Lord of the Riverlands, to ensure that the liberated Riverrun remained so. But then the dragons had returned to Westeros, led by the Stormborn Queen, and she had put down the Lannisters and what was left of Stannis Baratheon’s forces, having lived with a great hatred of their houses all her life. The Queen Regent was killed, fed to one of the new queen’s dragons, while plump little King Tommen was easily deposed and wed to Shireen Baratheon, the young Lady of Storm’s End after her father’s exile, the queen’s hand, none other than Tyrion Lannister, the regent for the young couple. As to Casterly Rock, the queen had wed Lady Myrcella to Aegon, her supposed nephew who had survived the Sack of King’s Landing all those years ago, giving her a firm hold over the Westerlands and the Stormlands. The Riverlands had quickly bent the knee, gladly supporting the new Targaryen queen if it meant peace for their people after so long at war.

Mother had feared the eyes of the queen would then settle further North when word of Daenerys Targaryen’s return had reached them in Winterfell, for the Starks had fought alongside Robert Baratheon against the Targaryens during the War of the Usurper. But House Stark had been spared the wrath of the Dragon Queen, surprisingly, because of Jeor’s long lost sister, found in the Vale. The recently widowed Alaynne Arryn, better known as Sansa Stark, had been found at the Gates of the Moon when Queen Daenerys’ forces had marched for the Eyrie. The young Lady of the Vale, heavy with child, had spun a tale of the intrigue that had become her life – both in King’s Landing and after – when Petyr Baelish had taken her as his bastard, had brought her to the Eyrie to care for little Robert, how the boy had died of one of his shaking fits shortly after winter had set in and she had been quickly wed to Harold Arryn, refashioned as a member of House Arryn in order to accept lordship of the Vale, how Harry had killed Baelish almost a year prior after he had found the man trying to slip his hand into his new wife’s bodice, how her husband had contracted a pox and died of his sickness, leaving Sansa alone, the heir to the Vale growing within her as she lived under the protection of Yohn Royce and his house. With her so-called father now dead, there was no one to force her to dye her hair, and even before her belly had begun to swell, the Tyroshi dye had begun to fade, and though it had been many years, Bronze Yohn had recognized Lady Catelyn in the young woman. He had known long before the new queen had arrived exactly who the Lady of the Vale was, and when he had bent the knee to Daenerys, he had told all he knew to her.  
  
The queen had taken pity on Sansa, had stayed with her through her delivery of a healthy son, Edrick, who proved his mother’s Stark heritage with dark hair and grey-blue eyes, and through his sister’s spinning of her tale of woe and the queen relating her own, the two had become friends, for both had been used against their will but had emerged stronger for it. Sansa had heard that her mother and brothers had returned to Winterfell and had requested mercy from the queen, citing the Starks desire to only see what was right occur, that her father had had no quarrel with the Targaryens until Lyanna went missing and his father and brother were killed, that they too had suffered at the hands of the Lannisters for only trying to do the honorable thing. Daenerys had heard her plea, and when she had come to Winterfell, she had brought Sansa and little Edrick, reuniting Sansa with her family for the first time in years.  
  
The homecoming had been tearful. Mother and Sansa had clung to each other as though they may never let go, and when they had finally separated enough for Jeor to get a good look at his eldest sister, he had thought he looked upon his mother’s twin rather than her daughter. For all the stories he had heard of how his sisters had quarreled, they had held tightly to one another as well, both sobbing unintelligible apologies in the yard as Mother had held them both, swaying side to side as one might do with a babe, though both had been women grown. Like himself, Rickon had been hesitant to approach, for he remembered little of this eldest sister, but Sansa had pulled him to her, crushing the King in the North in a firm embrace that the boy returned after only a moment’s hesitation.  
It was when her eyes had turned to him that Jeor had watched his sister pale.  
  
“Father,” she had whispered, her eyes never leaving the boy’s face.  
  
“He is your brother, Sansa,” Mother had explained quickly, rocking her first grandchild in her arms as she placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “This is Jeor.”

Sansa had knelt before him then, had taken his little face in her hands and kissed his forehead gently before pulling the boy into an embrace so strong that it nearly took the air out of him. She had asked no questions about where he had come from, no one had. One look at him and it seemed everyone believed him truly fathered by winter itself. And in the end, when Queen Daenerys had ceded them the North and allowed Rickon to retain the title of ‘King’ in exchange for a daughter of House Stark – preferably one of Rickon’s daughters when the time comes, though a daughter of Arya, who will wed Rodrik Mormont in a few moon’s time, or even Jeor will suffice if necessary – wedding her heir Rhaehaerys, the infant son of Aegon and Myrcella, and Sansa had returned to the Vale, ruling as regent in her son’s stead, life had simply gone on, no one pushing the King’s mother any further about his true father.  
  
“Come, Jeor,” she starts again, pulling slightly on his arm, trying to entice him to move. But he his stocky, firmly built, and her slender form barely musters enough force to sway him. When he does not budge, she turns to him, all hints of mirth gone from her face. “What is wrong, sweetling?” she asks, brows furrowing.  
  
Jeor gives no reply, only holds out his hand, palm up, revealing to her the dagger. He watches her closely, watches as recognition dawns in her blue eyes before they slip closed, a heavy sigh escaping her lips. “Jeor…”  
  
“Winter did not give you this blade, Mother, did not bid you keep it and use it for our protection,” he says quietly, firmly. “A man gave you this, a flesh and blood man. My father.” Holding her gaze, refusing to back down, he says, “Please, Mother. I am no son of Eddard Stark or even House Stark, for all Lady Alysane and others give me his name, I know this. And I know that I came to you at the Wall, Rickon confirmed for me as much–”  
  
“You’ve spoken of this with Rickon?” Catelyn asks, eyes going wide.  
  
“Of course I have,” Jeor tells her, surprised when she seems truly shocked by this, “he’s the only one left who I can –”  
  
He stops, cursing himself for his shortsightedness when he sees his mother flinch, sees the pain written across her face. It is a wound that never healed, much like the loss of Robb, for not all the Starks had come home to Winterfell. As a loud series of cheers erupts from the Great Hall, Jeor thinks back to their trip from Bear Island. Rickon is hailed as King in the North only because Bran had never returned to Winterfell. The journey from Bear Island in the height of winter had taken nearly a week, and when they had made camp, the tents and shelters had been clustered close together, all the better to look after one another.  
  
But it had not been enough to stop Bran, Jojen, Hodor, and Summer from running off in the dark of the night shortly after they had reached shore and started inland. They had simply slipped away, their destination unknown. Nymeria and Shaggydog had run out into the snow as soon as it was discovered they were missing, trying to follow their trail, and a small contingent of men had followed, but it had been to no avail. All they could discern was that the small group had gone northward, though no one knew where, not even Meera, who had been beside herself with worry. Mother had been even worse, Jeor remembers that well. She had blamed herself, still does, for not seeing that whatever Jojen had been telling Bran, whatever they had discussed so fervently and secretively, would eventually entice her son to abandon his family and his crown. Even now, all these years later, Bran has never returned, nor has Jojen. Meera, upon being reunited with her father, has become the heir to Greywater Watch in her brother’s place, but when Jeor sees her now, there is something missing, a shadow that seems to follow her, the shadow of the younger brother and prince she tried so hard to protect and who instead left her behind.  
  
“Forgive me, Mother,” Jeor apologizes quickly, hating himself for being the one to remind his mother of Bran.  
  
“Your brother made his decision, Jeor,” she answers, though he can see she is still troubled. “We can only pray that wherever they have gone, they are safe.”

“Of course,” Jeor agrees, knowing that he has prayed such many times before the Heart Tree. Though Mother still adheres to her Seven, and he finds some value in them as well, Jeor knows that, no matter what, he is a child of the North, and the Old Gods are his. He has spent hours before the weirwood, has asked the Old Gods to ever look after his older brother, wherever he may be. He finds it comforting, in those times when he prays for Bran, for the face carved by the Children of the Forest never fails to shed tears at the mention of his brother. If the gods hear his prayers enough to weep, then mayhap they will heed his pleas for Bran’s safety, and even eventual return.  
  
“And as for this,” Catelyn starts, drawing Jeor from his thoughts as she reaches out to fold his fingers gently over the weapon, securing it in his hand while hiding it from sight, “I suppose I had hoped you might delay such questioning for a few years yet.”  
  
“Mother,” Jeor starts, unsure of how to proceed, but knowing it must be said all the same, “do you not tell me because you do not know? You told me once that this dagger was given to you by my father to protect us, and Rickon swears that nothing of the sort happened while you were at the Wall, but I have heard the men talk and –”  
  
“No,” Catelyn says sharply, her blue eyes hardening as she understands what he is hinting at. She reaches out to cup his cheek, forces him to meet her gaze. “Rickon is correct, you did not come to me through violence, Jeor. Your namesake ensured that we were protected from anything of that nature.”  
  
“Then why do you tell me nothing?” Jeor asks, unrelenting as he slides the dagger back into its place at the back of his belt. “Am I not entitled to know a father, or am I forever destined to listen only to stories of Eddard Stark and have no one of mine own to compare, to blindly believe, as Alysandra and Rodrik do, in the myth of a father rather than the reality?” A plea in his eyes, he asks, “Is it so wrong to want to know my father?”  
  
“Jeor,” Catelyn starts with a sad sigh, her voice catching as he sees her eyes shimmer with unshed tears. It is as though she remembers something, something that haunts her, and he knows, without knowing how he knows, that it pertains to his father.  
  
“I will think no less of you, Mother, not for anything, or any man,” Jeor assures. He knows what is said of women who bear children outside of marriage, of babes born from such unions, and though the word ‘bastard’ is never whispered in his presence, he is not naïve enough to think it is never used.  
  
“I know you would not,” she tells him firmly, and though he can see the conflict in her face, he can also see the certainty that he would never think ill of her for how he came to be. “But what you must understand, sweetling,” Catelyn begins, running long fingers through his unruly curls, the ones that never lay flat, no matter how much she tries, “is that your life is infinitely better here, as a Stark, than if I were to acknowledge your father. If I were to do that, I would be forced to call you ‘Snow’, my son, and you cannot know the pain that would cause my heart. You carry Northern blood, you are born of winter, and winter itself has ever been the ally of the Starks.”  
  
“But my father –”  
  
“Your father,” Catelyn interrupts, cupping his cheek more firmly and forcing him to hold her gaze, “knows all of this. He knows that he cannot give you a life like this, the life that he wants you to have, that we both want you to have. He gave me that dagger to ensure your protection, and he has left you unacknowledged to ensure your life is good, that it is better than his. You are the brother of the King in the North, Jeor, you are accepted as such, loved as such. Your father could never give you that. But in stepping back, in staying away,” she whispers, one lone tear sliding down her cheek, “he proves how much he loves you, by allowing you to have all that he never did.”

Jeor has no response to this, knows not how to reply. He has had a good life, there is no doubting that. When he reaches manhood, he will wed highly, the daughter of a noble house, will have a holdfast held in Rickon’s name, and he wears the grey cloak of House Stark as though he is entitled to it and all its privileges. It is a life that would have been made more difficult, if not impossible, as a ‘Snow’. But is that enough? Is it selfish to wish to sacrifice all that Mother has given him to know the identity of his father? Is it selfish to wish to keep all that Mother has given him and forego knowing his father? Either option feels a betrayal, for he either betrays Mother to seek his father or betrays his father to ensure he does not hurt Mother. Damned if I don’t, damned if I do, he thinks wryly, understanding for the first time just exactly what is meant when men speak the phrase.  
  
“Tell me something,” Jeor whispers at last, feeling defeated, but unwilling to receive nothing in return for his acquiescence. “Anything, Mother, I do not care what. But tell me something of my father, I beg you.”  
  
“Oh, my son,” Catelyn starts, pulling him into her arms and holding him tightly, and as he rests his forehead against her shoulder, a way of seeking comfort since he was a small boy, he feels her hand slip into his hair, stroking lightly, soothingly, “know that your father loves you, he always has. And know,” she says, though he hears her voice crack as she does as though to say what comes next pains her, “that he is a good man. A very good man.”  
  
“As good as Ned Stark?” Jeor asks quietly, pulling away to see his mother’s face, to try to read the emotions that he hears in her words but cannot place.  
  
“No,” Catelyn answers with a shake of her head, a bittersweet smile weakly crossing her face, “but then none are.” Looking out over Winterfell, Jeor watches his mother take in a shaky breath, and he knows she fights to keep her emotions in check as she adds, “But he has the potential to come close, as close as any man might.”  
  
High praise from Mother, Jeor thinks, knowing that even now, so many years later, she still mourns her husband. There have been a few, fools all of them, who thought they could persuade her to remarry. She had thoroughly rebuked them all, clinging to her widowhood and the memory of her dead lord. He respects his mother for this, for the love she still bears Lord Stark, and he knows that for her to speak so of his father is a high compliment, even if he does see the shadows of grief and … something else he cannot identify behind her eyes as she speaks of it.  
  
“Thank you, Mother,” Jeor says at last. He knows she had not wanted to say even this, but it is something, at least, more than he’s ever had before. Mother seems to relax at this, and even gives him a true smile as he kisses her cheek and slips her hand over his elbow to lead her back inside. He is not entirely satisfied, but at least he knows more than he did before.  
  
The Great Hall is still alive with merriment, and it seems as though they have barely been missed. Mother slips away with a kiss to his cheek, off to talk with Lady Alysane and Sansa, who has come up from the Vale with Edrick to be here for the announcement of Rickon’s betrothal. Jeor stands back against the wall, watching the celebration go on around him. He snatches a goblet off of a nearby table, swirling the mead in the cup before downing a swallow. No one is watching, specifically Mother, and he enjoys the taste of the somewhat bitter mead. It gives him time to think, to mull over his mother’s words. He no longer doubts that his father is a good man, for Mother would not say such without having cause, not even to please him, this he knows well. It is high praise indeed, and Jeor is glad of this. But even knowing all this, he cannot help but want to know more!

A loud bark of laughter from across the hall draws his attention, and Jeor smile as he sees Rickon – tall, lean, dark auburn hair making him look more Tully were it not for eyes of such dark blue that they appear the deepest grey – with his head thrown back and his arm around Alysandra, both of them wildly entertained at something the Greatjon has told them. Wild is an appropriate descriptor when it comes to the Blackwolf King of Winter, and truly, Jeor cannot imagine why he should be much different. For all that he is a king, Rickon does not act it. He will be the first to laugh, long and loud, the first to brawl, the first to drink – everyone remembers his nameday four years past when he challenged the Greatjon to a drinking contest and had nearly won, surprisingly – and the first to fight. Growing up on Bear Island, Rickon has no notion of what most would deem a woman’s appropriate place, believes Arya, who is always armed and in breeches unless, like tonight, Mother refuses to relent, or Osha, hunting and laboring as any man, to be normal and Mother, with her gowns, demure speech, and reserved manner, to be the oddity. He sees what he wants to see, of course, Jeor thinks, knowing full well that there are far more women that behave as Mother does rather than as the Mormont girls and Arya do. But they hold little interest to Rickon, so he overlooks them. The only proper woman he pays heed to is Mother, for obvious reasons. In many ways, his brother is still the brash, energetic boy he had been all those years ago, but behind his impatience, there is now calculation, careful planning and forethought. Those who would underestimate King Rickon doom themselves to failure, for he is as shrewd as he is impetuous, and his wolf’s blood runs hot alongside his mother’s cunning.  
  
Lord Umber slaps the young king on the back before departing, still chuckling at his own jape, revealing the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch standing beside the king’s betrothed. Rickon had written Jon himself to invite his half-brother and had been thrilled when he had said he would be able to come. And it was Jon whom Rickon had suggested, after he had grown annoyed with his little brother continuing to talk about his unknown father, Jeor question as to the man’s identity.  
  
“Jon went to the Watch when I was small, long before you were born,” Rickon had explained a few weeks prior when they two had been riding the Wolfswood. “He was on the Wall when we fled from Winterfell, that’s why Luwin told Mother to take us there. If you really want to know who your father was, ask him. If anyone would know, it would likely be Jon.”  
  
“Mother doesn’t want me to know, though, at least I don’t think she does,” Jeor had retorted, unsure. “I like Jon, he’s always kind to me when he comes to visit you and Arya. I do not want mother to be angry with him.”  
  
At this, Rickon had snorted his laughter. “Mother is angry at Jon for his very existence, Jeor, you know this. It was the one mistake Father made that she could never let go, even now. If you really want to know, ask him, he will likely tell you.” With a smirk, his eyes alight with mischief, he had added, “I could even order him, if you want. I know the Watch is supposed to pledge no allegiance to kings of the realm, but I bet he would if I told him to. But either decide to ask him or not, for I am getting tired of hearing you whine about it.”  
  
“Do you think I am whining?” Jeor had asked.  
  
“I think,” Rickon had started with a sigh, becoming uncharacteristically serious, “that you want something you can never have, any more than I can. I barely remember my father, only vague images, and I have no idea how many of those memories are truly mine or just ones I have acquired through stories I have been told. And I know that you probably think that is better, but in many ways, it isn’t. I know his name, who he was, but it doesn’t help me now.”

Adjusting his long cloak grey cloak, the one with the embroidered black wolf instead of the white one that adorned Jeor’s, he had said, “There are times I would prefer to be you, brother, to be fathered by winter itself, to have no expectations to which I am held, to be allowed to be my own man and not stand in the shadow of one long dead. While Arya is blessed with the memories of a man who gave her love and support, I am cursed with his ghost. In those ways, in those times, I would much prefer to be you.”  
  
The king’s words had given him much to think on, and in the days since the Lord Commander’s arrival, Jeor had not approached him with questions about his father. Truly, in the excitement of the past week, he had forgotten. But now, seeing Jon standing there, undoubtedly offering his congratulations to his young half-brother and soon to be good sister, Jeor knows that he wants to ask now. And before he can lose his nerve, he starts across the room, glad when Rickon pulls Alysandra away, can hear him telling Jon that he must speak with his betrothed’s grandmother as they walk off, leaving him to talk to Jeor privately.  
  
“Hello, Jon,” Jeor starts, offering his hand to the man as he joins him.  
  
“Jeor,” Jon greets, offering the boy a wide, genuine smile, the same one he always has for Jeor, as he shakes his hand with vigorous affection. It is odd, Jeor thinks, that his man, who has no love for Mother and shares no blood with him, always greets him so merrily, so warmly. It is said brothers of the Watch are as cold as the Wall they guard, and though Jeor has seen Jon’s stony face before, it has never been directed at him. The Lord Commander has ever treated him as though he was one of his own siblings, and to be sure, they look more like than he and Rickon, but still, Rickon is his blood, Jeor is not. Still, Jeor will not complain, for he had spoken truly to his brother when he said that he liked Jon, and were it not for that … friendship, for lack of any better term, he would not be so bold now as to start this conversation. “How are you?”  
  
“I am well, thank you,” Jeor answers, with a smile. “And you, Lord Commander?”  
  
“Well also,” Jon replies, the smile not fading from his bearded face. “I am pleased for Rickon and Lady Alysandra. I think they will be quite happy with one another. And I know Arya will be happy as the Lady of Bear Island.”  
  
“Very happy, indeed,” Jeor agrees, glancing back over his shoulder to ensure his mother is occupied. Fortunately, he finds her engrossed in conversation with Lord and Lady Glover near the high table on the far side of the hall.  
  
“Is something wrong, Jeor?” Jon asks, concerned.  
  
“No,” Jeor answers with a shake of his head, “but I was hoping you might be able to help me with something.”  
  
“I shall help you however I can, you know this,” Jon tells him, the look of disquiet not leaving his dark eyes.  
  
“I was wondering,” Jeor starts, reaching to his back and producing the dragonglass dagger, revealing the blade to the Lord Commander, watching Jon’s eyes widen as he sees it, perplexed as he sees Jon’s gaze move across the room, lingering in the same direction as his mother had been before coming back to the blade, “if you might be able to tell me something of the man who gave this to my mother?”


End file.
